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“I’m the first Cobalt to be in a relationship,” I explain, “and I just can’t predict whether my mom and dad will challenge you or profess immediate fealty. It’s too soon to tell, and in my mind, there’s not enough substantial data.”
This sentence is so cobalt
First come the bodyguards. I count five. And then five famous faces bring up the rear. Charlie, Beckett, Eliot, Tom, and Ben. Every single one of my brothers. They’re all here, and they’re far too fixated on Thatcher like he’s tonight’s five-course meal.
I love it
How Eliot can summon tears out of cold-hearted eyes. How Beckett can make your awed gasp feel like the last breath you’ll take. How Ben can harness your empathy so you do the right thing. How Tom can wake the dead things buried inside you. How Audrey can bottle love and romance like it’s life’s greatest necessity. And Charlie—everyone thinks he has no soul but his is just the darkest, deepest of them all.
Cobalt brothers—they’re cited as the “sexiest,” oozing some kind of ancient, sensual allure.
I agree
“How would you like it if I cracked your ribcage and tore out your heart?” Charlie rips open the last buttons of his white shirt. Bare chest and toned abs in view. “Go ahead.” Eliot unpockets a switchblade, twirls the knife, and stakes it on the wooden table near Ben.
I love them
“Murder-blocker,” Tom quips. “The worst,” Eliot jokes.
Donnelly inked every single one of Beckett’s tattoos, and all are flowers from roses to daisies to lilies and poppies, as homage to our mom and aunts.
AWWWWW
“Shh, Charlie.” Jane puts a finger to her lips. “We’re trying not to wake him.” She’s warning her brother. Farrow is glaring at him to back off. I’m about to stand up and guide him away. “I can help with that.” Charlie pats the hardback on his palm, and then he hurls the book at Maximoff’s head.
What happens next is history. My history. Maybe they never explained these dinners because you can’t. I’m twenty-eight, but here—no person is older or younger. Time is frozen, and a soul-bleeding feeling sings and screams—an experience that philosophers and mathematicians would fail to encapsulate. I’d try. But then again, I’d rather carry their secrets to my grave.
AHH IWANT TO KNOW
